Mistletoe
by writerofberk
Summary: "Come on, Branch! It's tradition!"


Everything's normal right up until it's not.

Poppy's going, full steam ahead, ninety miles a minute, maybe more, on and on about her latest death trap, and she throws the word _Christmas_ around like it's some kind of candy— _come on, Branch, it's Christmas_ — _you can be happy on Christmas, can't you_ — _nobody should be alone on Christmas_ —like she thinks anyone, anywhere, gives even half a damn about a couple strings of colored lights and a ton of outdated carols, and he steps forward and opens his mouth with the refusal ready on his tongue and—

—words words words words, bursting and blasting and blaring from _every single mouth_ , a thousand and one sounds, shrieks and shouts and screams, cutting sharp as knives through the stinging snow and spilling over him like a bucket of ice down a warm back— _oh my god oh my god oh my god,_ and Smidge's small hands flying up to cup her cheeks— _goodness, no, don't, you shouldn't,_ and Biggie crushes Mr. Dinkles to his chest— _ew, no, Poppy, run, girl, run,_ and Chenille's flawless, made-up face twists up when she looks at Branch, like he's a bad smell she can't banish— _yeah, no shame, girlfriend, no shame,_ and Satin's actually chewing her perfect manicure and _what the hell is even going on—_

" _Guys,"_ andthe wintry world around them all has got absolutely nothing on the ice in Poppy's voice and everyone—

—everyone stops. Just like that. Standing, still as statues in the frigid whirl of snow and sleet still gusting wildly around them, and tugging on the ends of scarves and tossing flyaway strands of thick hair and is that even Poppy anymore, her pretty face all scrunched up in a—a scowl, an actual scowl, Branch has never, ever seen Poppy scowl before, and he doesn't know what to do with it, what to do with any of this because _Poppy's pissed_ and _Satin's biting her nails_ and if someone would just tell him what the _fuck_ —

" _Branch,"_ Poppy huffs out a breath that ruffles up her bangs, and she still holds a storm in her eyes, but her voice softens slightly around his name and he hates how quickly his heart picks up at the sound of it on her tongue, " _I_ know this isn't a big deal, and _you_ know this isn't a big deal." She looks at him, pointedly, thin brows arching up by the barest centimeter in silent prompting. _"Right?"_ There's a touch of fire to her tone that dares him to disagree.

"I—uh—I don't—"

"Poppy, love," Creek, _fucking Creek_ , won't even get close to Poppy, none of them will get close to Poppy, like she's got an invisible two-ton five-foot barrier around her only Branch can break, and there's something seriously fucked-up going on right here and Creek's fucking calling Poppy _love_ and everyone's staring at them and Poppy just got actually full-on pissed for the first time in her damn life, and Branch grinds his teeth together so hard it hurts and he tells himself he's not going to lose his shit he's not going to lose his shit _he's not going to lose_ —

"—you know you don't have to—it's _Branch,_ after all—"

" _What the fuck is going on?!"_ Oh. Damn it. He lost his shit.

Satin squeals, and claps her hands over her open mouth. "He doesn't know!"

"' _He'_ is _right fucking here_ —!"

"—oh my god oh my god oh my god—"

"—Smidge, that is _not helping_ —"

"—please, Mr. Dinkles is _really_ freaking out—!"

—and Poppy—Poppy sighs, and rolls her pretty pink eyes and storms forward like a goddamned one-woman army but then she's grabbing Branch's chin in her hands and his breath is catching in his throat and her fingers are warm warm warm against the stinging skin of his snow-flecked face and okay no no nope _no_ this is _not_ fine this is not fine not fine not fine _touching him is not fucking fine especially not when her touch makes him forget his own goddamn name_ but then she's tipping his head back back back until he's staring up into a slate-grey sky and falling snow and a tiny, fluttering sprig of green—

 _He's standing under a bunch of goddamn mistletoe with Princess fucking Poppy._ Like he really needed another fucking reason to wonder what her lips taste like, or how her mouth would feel pressed up against his or if maybe the warmth of her could reach the winter inside him and pull it out or melt it down and how soft her hair would feel against his skin when he tangled his fingers up in the bubblegum-pink, strawberry-scented cloud atop her head and how he'd grab her waist and press her back against the wall and kiss her until he forgot the feeling of everything but her mouth on his and—

 _Fucking Christ no stop that's never going to fucking happen stop thinking about it stop fucking thinking about it you really think she'd go for the fucked-up grey outcast who ruins things and fucking kills people—_

"Mistletoe. No big deal, right?" Poppy steps back and lets go of his chin and he can't remember how to even breathe. "Gotta respect the tradition, and all."

"I—" _her mouth pressed up against his and her hair in his fingers and his hands on her waist and her back to the wall and stop stop fucking stop don't you dare fucking—_ "n-no," he says, finally, "no, we fucking _don't_."

" _What?"_

"—Branch—!"

"—you can't just—"

"—he can't actually do that, can he—?"

"—oh my god oh my god oh my god—"

"—it's _tradition_ —"

"I don't care if it's King Peppy's latest _royal decree_ ," Branch throws out the words like his sharpest knives, with the aim and unshakable confidence of years' practice. _"I'm not doing this."_

A flash of actual hurt crosses Poppy's face. "Hey, you know, _I_ didn't ask for this, either."

"No?" _I know you didn't I know you didn't I fucking know you didn't who in their right fucking mind would._ "Good. So we're on the same page." He steps back and he turns around and he just needs to get back to his bunker so he can barricade himself inside and give in to the images burning in the back of his mind, memorize the way Poppy's body fits against his in all his wildest fantasies, and fuck, he needs a few thousand shots of his strongest whiskey or he's never going to sleep tonight, not after this.

"Is he _serious_ right now?"

"God, what a _jerk_. Good riddance. Right, Poppy?"

"Yeah, girl, you're _way_ better off this way, trust me. It's Branch. Don't think you're missing too much."

A smattering of laughter, and Branch's ears burned in the cold wind and he bites his tongue until he feels the skin break and the hot blood bubble up and clenches his fists until he feels the telltale sting of tearing flesh.

"Absolutely right. Poppy, love, we _all_ know Branch has a bit of a, er— _unique perspective_ —on things in that little head of his. It's _certainly_ no loss of _yours_ if he doesn't want to kiss you, remember that."

And oh, God, that's the _fucking problem_ , isn't it, because Branch—

—Branch _does_ want to kiss Poppy.

Oh, God. Branch wants to kiss Poppy. So, so much.

* * *

 **A/N: Ahhhhhhh 'tis the season where I write 100000000+ fics for Branch and Poppy getting caught under the mistletoe together.** **It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...** **anyway, made it pre-film to give it a different flavor from the other mistletoe fics I'm sure will explode all over the archives soon lmao. Can't wait to see what everyone else contributes to the fandom this holiday season!**


End file.
